


The Miner

by LithiumDoll



Series: Amnesty Fics [9]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:52:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumDoll/pseuds/LithiumDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reddington's not the only one with a list.</p><p>[NO LONGER UPDATING]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Goes so amazingly AU after The Director pt2, because so much jossing. So much. It could only be more AU if there were werewolves, somehow. 
> 
> Beta: Thank you, Mitchy!

Late afternoon light shone sluggishly through the colored glass of the bar door; it barely made it through the grimy windows at all. In the darkest corners, patrons and furniture blended in a dusty haze, but every nick, scratch and stain on the battered wooden bartop was picked out in stark relief.

Four men slumped at the bar, nursing warm bottles of beer. Three, clustered close to the door, looked like they’d come straight from the docks. The fourth, alone at the end, had been flagged on the Post Office’s surveillance feeds with so little effort that Don didn’t know whether to call it carelessness or a death wish.

As Keen was sitting with his back to the door, not even glancing at it when it opened, he was leaning towards the latter.

“I guess I should say thanks,” Don said. He leaned against the bar, then jerked back with a grimace when his sleeve caught against the sticky surface. “Nice.”

Keen turned his head just enough to make sure there were no cops surrounding the building and then looked morosely back down at his beer. “Thanks for stopping you, for helping you, or for making it this easy to find me?”

“First, you couldn’t have stopped me unless I wanted you to. I didn’t kill the people responsible for Audrey’s death, I wouldn’t have killed that piece of crap. Second, we both know you weren’t helping me, you were helping Liz. And I saved your ass at the cabin.”

“Then I guess your shoe leather is welcome.” Keen kept both hands wrapped loosely around his Coors. ”Can I at least finish my drink before I’m shot resisting arrest?”

Don resigned himself to yet another dry cleaning bill and settled his forearms back on whatever the hell was coating the bar. At least it wasn’t blood this time. He raised a finger to the bored-looking bartender, signalling for a beer of his own. “I get why you didn’t leave,” he said once it appeared.

“Didn’t take the first couple times.” Keen’s mouth twitched in a self-deprecating smirk. “The definition of madness is doing the same thing again and again, right?”

“But I wasn’t sure why you didn’t go to ground,” Don went on, ignoring him. “I’ve got a theory, though.”

“Yeah, you got me: I missed your smiling face.” Keen’s hands abandoned the beer bottle and retreated into the pockets of a stained and tattered blue hoodie. It wasn’t a move for a weapon, Don was pretty sure, but he tensed anyway.

The hands returned to plain sight, holding nothing.

“You don’t want to leave Liz,” Don said, relaxing again. “But I bet there’s this little voice at the back of your head that’s telling you she’ll get hurt if you stay.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.” The glance Keen shot him was unfriendly. “You know what’s worse than discovering you have a conscience? Discovering it sounds a lot like Cooper’s resident boy scout.”

“If I hadn’t come through the door, who would have? Russians? The Cabal? McCready? Maybe even one of Reddington’s people?” Don drank some of his beer. “You ever meet a bridge you didn’t burn?”

“Not since Liz.” Keen’s bitten-down nails worried at the label of his empty bottle. A minor tell of agitation and an obvious one: meaningless.

Whatever Keen’s plan was in allowing the FBI to catch up to him, it hadn’t gone anywhere he didn’t want it to yet.

“Death by cop, that it? Quicker than what anyone else has in mind, maybe, but you really think I’d come in here guns blazing? Even if I would - even if you deserve it - Liz would never forgive me.”

“She forgave you chasing her down,” Keen pointed out, tone mild to the point of inflectionless. “She’s pretty understanding.”

Don snorted, glad he wasn’t drinking. “Elizabeth Keen: poster girl for live and let live. That the problem? That she forgave me, but not you? Not that she _needed_ to - I was doing my job.” A stray thought gave him a new thread to pull on. “Or is it that she might get passed it? Maybe even still loves you, and you know you’re toxic.”

Keen’s expression didn’t even flicker away from faintly bemused disinterest. “I’d say your theory’s good, but I’ve _literally_ taught fourth graders with a better sense of character narrative. I can suggest some remedial worksheets?”

However indifferent he was trying to appear, Keen was on defense. Trouble was, Don hadn’t walked into the bar with a game plan - honestly, he hadn’t really expected his target to still be there. Then he’d been curious and now … now that thread was dangling right in front of him and the compulsion to tug on it was strong.

And a little unravelling was no less than Keen deserved.

“Personally, I don’t think you need to worry about Liz forgiving you,” Don said at last. “She might be _understanding_ , but let’s review some of your highlights. There’s Meera, of course.” He paused to see if that provoked a response, some kind of denial: something to feed the slow-burning anger in his gut and make his decision for him.

“Lucy Brooks,” he went on, when Keen gave him nothing but silence. “Eugene Ames. Do you have a rough estimate of how many people you killed hunting down Karakurt? That would be helpful.”

“No one that wasn’t trying to kill me,” Keen muttered, and began to pick at the label again.

“The name Asher Sutton mean anything to you?”

“Like I said.”

“Rich kid playing amateur MMA versus a trained operative? Sure, I’d buy self-defense.” Don shook his head and pushed his beer away. The little stomach he’d had for it was gone; the lingering taste in the back of his throat had turned sour. “You know his fiancée, Gwen, she-”

“You really want to do this now? Fine.” Keen straightened and turned, holding Don’s gaze with something that might have been amusement, might have been a challenge.

“I killed Asher Sutton and Eugene Ames,” he murmured, tone level and easy. Just two guys, shooting the shit at the end of the day. “I gave Malik’s name to Berlin - along with several others. I took out Lucy Brooks, and shot some guy whose name I never found out. He had a great hat. I have no idea how many people I’ve put in the ground in the last week _alone_ and we both know, sooner or later - probably sooner - I’ll do it again.

“And you’re right: the one person I care about is the one person I shouldn’t go near. So if you’re not going to shoot me or arrest me, maybe you can get the hell out of here and give someone else the chance.”

Don waited for that fire to flare, for the urge to punch Keen out and haul him in to become too overwhelming to resist. “Have you showered since the cabin?” He asked instead, on perverse impulse. “Have you even slept? Eaten?”

It was almost worth it to see Tom Keen to blink. “What?”

“Your safe houses were burned, where are you staying?”

“Why ... would I tell you that?”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Abruptly done with this, Don peeled himself away from the bar and stood. “If I sent SWAT, you get what you want. And I’m pretty sure you’re not concerned about me being caught in the blast radius of whatever’s coming for you.”

“I figured if you kept going, you’d get something right eventually. Go home, Agent Ressler.”

The thread finally twisted free; Don caught the trailing end with more than a touch of morbid amusement. “But Liz _would_ be concerned about me,” he said. “So you’re keeping away from everyone she cares about too. I thought you were joking about picking up a conscience.”

Keen _flinched_. Don wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been looking, waiting, but he’d lay money that, for the first time in Tom Keen’s life, he was completely at a loss.

The temptation to keep pulling was even weaker this time; he blamed it on the shock. “Okay, you’re going to be stubborn and I wouldn’t sit in this bar for someone I liked, let alone for you.

“You know where I live, you stop feeling sorry for yourself and decide to grow a pair, come by and we’ll work out if you have a future.”

-o-

Less than twelve hours later, crouched next to an overflowing yellow dumpster and trying to stem the flow of blood from a shallow slice along his ribs, Jacob almost wished he’d taken Ressler up on his offer.

Almost.

“Slow. Slow and stupid. You have no sight lines, no secondary exit, no situation awareness.” Gina stood before him, the knife she’d taken from him in their brief scuffle still in her hand. She gestured towards at the mouth of the alley and then waved the blade in front of his nose. “I could have killed you. Easily. _With your own knife_. Too embarrassing.”

“Yeah, that’s the worst part,” he agreed and slowly held out his hand.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” she snapped, but rolled her eyes and dropped the knife into his waiting palm.

After sliding the blade into its sheathe at the small of his back, Jacob hauled himself to his feet. “So why am I still alive? If you want information, I’m out the loop - the best I can tell you is the Director of the Cabal’s really bad at skydiving.”

Gina shrugged. “You’re alive because you’re worth more in entertainment value than you are in coin. For now. Have you eaten?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?”

“I’m hungry,” she said. “If you’ve finished bleeding, find us a cab.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Give him what he really wants,” Gina suggested, then delicately sipped the soup from her spoon. “Maybe he’ll take you back. You need a handler.”

“What he really wants is for someone to put a bullet in my head.” Jacob dropped the fry he’d failed to work up the enthusiasm to eat and leaned back, pushing his plate away. “That why you’re here?”

“Here in America? No, not even for you. In the city, yes. If I have to be in this country, at least I can have a little fun.” Gina’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I prefer Europe this time of year.”

“You prefer Europe any time of year,” he reminded her, and grinned when she ruefully ducked her head.

His amusement faded as he realized he wasn’t pretending. Despite everything, he was kind of happy to see her. Well, didn’t that say a whole lot for his mental health? “So you going to do it? Pretty sure Wendy won’t try and stop you.”

Behind the counter, Hello-my-name-is-Wendy glanced up, then went back to her crossword.

“Not before I finish eating.” Gina tore a piece off her roll. “And then not for thirty minutes after.”

“Yeah, I think that’s swimming, not assassination. Where is he? Spain?”

A noncommittal shrug. “You know him, he likes to travel.”

“Give me a day to work it out,” he bargained, catching her gaze again and aiming somewhere between desperate and sincere. “Give me one day and I won’t fight you.”

The first job they’d worked together, they’d had bad Intel, no exfil and zero trust. Both of them had been bloody before the last guy went down, but she’d laughed. Not from nerves or relief -  with a bullet in her leg and three bodies at her feet, she’d laughed with this real, genuine joy that forced him to laugh right along with her.

He’d never been able to emulate it, and it turned out familiarity didn’t make him immune. He grinned again and held up his hands as she giggled.

“I know when you’re lying,” she said, when she’d calmed down. “ _Your heart beats_.”

“Fine.” He dropped his hands back to the table. “Then I promise I won’t kill you.”

“We both know you can’t.”

“Yeah,” he said, and let his smile seep away. “I can.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she concluded, after considering his expression for a long, clinical moment. “You’ve always been a little soft and now you’re even softer.”

“You’re the one giving me warning,” he pointed out.

“Or lining you up for a shot.” She rested the spoon in her empty bowl. “So many tall buildings in New York. It’s a dark night, and you’re lit so well.”

“No.” He leaned forward, framing himself in the window beside their booth, making himself a better target for her non-existent sniper. “You wouldn’t let someone else do it.”

“Give him what he wants,” she repeated. “Maybe he calls off the hit. You have a day. After that, if it isn’t me, it _will_ be someone else.”

“I missed you,” he said, and wasn’t sure why.

She patted his shoulder as she stood. “Liar.”

-o-

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that, but it looked like it hurt.” Don pushed open his apartment door and gestured inside.

Keen had been skulking in the hall when Don had finally made it home, receiving wary glances from Nana Polega as she took her elderly Pomeranian for its usual late night shuffle. Honestly, when he’d impulsively invited Keen to come by, Don hadn’t anticipated it would be at midnight, after he’d pulled eighteen hours on security for one of Reddington’s mysterious CIs.

In hindsight, and given both Keens had made a career of disrupting his life, that had probably been optimistic.

“Say it again. Little slower this time.” Don draped his jacket over the back of his couch and loosened his tie as he headed towards the refrigerator. “‘Agent Ressler, I _what_ your _what_?’”

Keen propped himself against the kitchen diner. “I need your …” His mouth twisted shut and he shook his head, straightening again. “No, you know what - forget about it. Should have just gone to Reddington. Or Liz.”

Don had been about to offer him a beer; he abruptly changed his mind. “You know where the door is,” he said, helpfully pointing that way.

“McCready’s still got a bounty on me,” Keen ground out after an obvious moment of internal debate. “I’ve been on borrowed time since I came back. The cameras you set up outside the courthouse probably clipped me - there’s at least one hitter in the city right now. That’s on you,” he concluded. “You _owe_ me.”

“I really don’t.” Don twisted the cap off his bottle, then clocked the stiffness in Keen’s posture. “They make a try?”

“Not seriously, she was just proving a point. With a knife.” Keen looked more embarrassed than injured. “Me and Gina go back.”

“Gina… _Gina Zanetakos_?” Don carefully put the bottle on the counter before he broke it - either in his own hand or over Keen’s head, could go either way. “The picture wasn’t a plant, was it? You _did_ assassinate-”

“I’m just saying,” Keen interrupted, “that with Gina, it’s complicated.”

“Facebook, ‘It’s complicated’ or agent-of-a-foreign-power, ‘ _it’s complicated_?’”

“She thinks if Bud gets what he wants, he might call off the hit.”

“What he wants is you dead,” Don pointed out, then picked up his beer again and headed for the couch. If he couldn’t have a little peace and quiet, he could at least be comfortable.

“That’s what I thought,” Keen agreed, and trailed after him. “But then I realized there’s one thing he wants more: Reddington.”

Don dropped onto the couch. “Even if there _was_ a world where that would happen, if you think handing over Reddington would be the way to convince Liz to-”

“Not like that.” Keen dragged the ottoman opposite the couch and sat, leaning forward intently as he made his pitch. “Bud lost face and a lot of money - Reddington did that.”

“At some point, we’re going to have a long talk about personal responsibility and accepting the consequences of our actions.”

“Whatever. The point is, Bud will take his pound of flesh from of me, because I’m all he can get. What he _wants_ is his operation back. Reddington can make that happen.”

The depressing thing, on several levels, was that Keen was probably right. “Sounds like you have it all planned out. So why come to me?”

“Reddington likes you.”

Don raised an eyebrow.

“He respects you,” Keen clarified. “He _wants_ to believe there are genuinely good people out there. That’s why he destruct tests anyone who claims to have a moral compass. As far as I know, boy scout, you never failed. He’ll at least listen to you, I wouldn’t even get my foot in the door.”

“What if he’s sent people after you too?”

“Then you can open an office pool on who gets me first.” Keen smirked without humor. “I’d go with Gina, personally. She’s pretty creative.”

“And in this imaginary world where Reddington listens to anything I say, and where I’m remotely inclined to help, what are you offering him?”

“My contract.”

Don didn’t try to hold in his laughter. It was almost one a.m., he hadn’t eaten since noon and it didn’t look like he’d be seeing his bed for hours, but at least Keen was funny.

“It’s win-win,” Keen insisted, ignoring him. “If Reddington does business with The Major, that shows everyone out that there Bud’s clean. And if I _take_ the contract, that shows he can control his assets too.”

“Good for Bud, but I don’t see what’s in it for Reddington? Seems to me he’d look pretty stupid to hire a guy who’s flipped on him.”

Uncertainty crept into Keen’s expression; he blinked shyly, but smiled warmly. His shoulders rounded, his chin lowered and there, save for the glasses, was Tom Keen: Liz’s devoted, harmlessly naive husband. “Please, Agent Ressler. I really need your help.”

Don dropped the beer and jerked to his feet, fist gripping Keen’s collar before the bottle hit the floor. Keen was unresisting, exactly as he’d been the first time he’d shown up outside Don’s apartment.

“What?” Mockery shone in his eyes as the veneer slid away. “I asked nicely.”

Don shoved him back, viciously pleased to hear a hiss of pain. “If you _ever_ do that to Liz, I’ll save McCready the money and shoot you for free.”

Keen righted himself, expression sharply calculating once more. “Is that a yes?”

Too angry not to move, Don crossed to the windows and began tugging the drapes shut. “I know what you get out of it,” he said when he could trust his tone to be even. “What McCready gets out of it. I can even see what Reddington gets out of it. If you want my help, I get Gina Zanetakos.”

“No.” Keen’s tone was a flat denial, no room for negotiation.

In other words, it meant nothing. “She’s a terrorist and an assassin, she escaped custody and fled the country, and I want her back behind bars.”

“But what you’ll _get_ is a pile of dead agents and no Gina.” Keen stooped to pick up the empty bottle and crossed back to the kitchen to set it on the counter. “She’s won’t get caught again,” he said, flatly certain. “You have no idea how lucky you were to get her the first time.”

“We won’t need luck, because we’ll have you.”

“If I refuse, you’ll, what? Just let me get taken out?”

“Of course not,” Don said, as reassuringly - and obnoxiously - as possible. “We’d put you in protective custody. Solitary, just to be safe. You’ll be alive and cosy in your six by nine for years and years.”

“There has to be _something_ else you want,” Keen tried, with another fluid shift in expression and posture. No one Don had seen before, but when a cocky, teasing grin appeared, he realized this was probably who Sutton had taken both barrels of.

Kid hadn’t stood a chance.

“You’re not my type,” Don said dryly. “And I’m not that lonely.”

“I’m everyone’s type.” Despite the confident words, Keen looked momentarily abashed. A flash of vulnerability, which he didn’t _quite_ manage to cover with the quick grin that followed.

The third personality in barely more than a handful of seconds.

“But you are _good_ ,” Don said, impressed despite himself, and seeing no particular reason to hide it. “I mean, Cooper told me - and anyone who can keep Liz guessing for so long has to be on another level - but I had no idea. Have you ever had an honest emotion in your life?”

“I have to say that the anger I’m currently experiencing feels pretty real,” Keen said through gritted teeth, and Don was at least sixty percent sure he wasn’t trying another play.

“Gina Zanetakos,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”

“Reddington isn’t the only one with a list,” Keen temporized. “I’ll tell you every name, every connection I know about. I promise you, that’s worth a lot more.”

“Why are you trying so hard to help her?” Don gestured at the dark spots of blood staining the material of Keen’s increasingly battered hoodie. “She _stabbed_ you.”

Keen’s mouth opened. Closed. Finally, he shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Or maybe you have no idea? I’ll run it by Cooper in the morning,” Don went on, when Keen didn’t reply. “He agrees and we’ll take it from there.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I suggest you find somewhere better to hide.”


	3. Chapter 3

There should, Harold felt, be some kind of natural balance - even in a coldly uncaring universe.

A balance where, after being diagnosed with cancer, after being put through the wringer of medical trials and ethical dilemmas, after losing his position, after discovering that the doctors had lied, after learning that a friend had used him and that his wife had embarked on an affair, after being forced to work with criminals he distrusted at best and abhorred at worst - after the politics, the betrayals and the heartache - he should at least get one damn day to deal with the backlog of paperwork before being thrown back into the insanity.

Apparently, that just wasn't on the cards.

Ressler finished his, thankfully concise, summary of Tom Keen's activities; Harold folded his reading glasses and dropped them on his desk. He could already feel a blacklist-sized headache developing. "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"Glad you've regained your sense of humor, sir." Ressler shrugged with something like sympathy, or at least mutual understanding. "There's no real way to verify beyond the obvious: we know more than one group wants him dead and we know he won't leave the city. Otherwise, we're taking his word for everything, including his motivations for staying. Maybe it's about Liz," he allowed. "Or maybe that's just what he wants us to think."

Harold nodded in agreement. "What about the names? Do you think they're likely to be valuable?"

"I got the impression he didn't want to cash them in, which would suggest they have some worth. Admittedly, it's possible his reluctance is part of some convoluted plan to give us information that he doesn't want us to know that he wants us to have."

"A page out of Reddington's play book," Harold said, after taking a moment to work that out. He tilted his head back and stared unseeing at the tiled ceiling, considering the angles here, there, and six moves ahead.

"You've spent more time with him than me," Ressler pointed out. With unusual diplomacy, he didn't dwell on the circumstances. "Do you think he's on the level?"

"He might well be planning to use us. On the other hand, regardless of his motives, the vast majority of the names Reddington has divulged have been worth the time to clear from the board.

"Given the overlap in the circles they move in, it's reasonable to hope that Keen's would too. If anything..."

"He might have names Reddington has been avoiding giving us," Ressler finished for him, with a small, hard smile. "Wouldn't that be interesting?"

"It would also explain why Keen thinks Reddington may be willing to bail him out: an exchange for his silence."

"It doesn't explain why Reddington wouldn't just have him killed," Ressler said. "Seems simpler."

"And the one thing Agen- Elizabeth Keen might not be able to work past. She's gifted at compartmentalizing her feelings for the greater good - she's cooperated with Reddington numerous times when she'd rather have walked away - but there are limits."

Ressler's expression wavered uneasily. "If this is moving forward, we need to tell her."

That, Harold had zero internal debate over. "Absolutely not. Keen's no longer an agent and we cannot be seen to include her in any departmental decision making whatsoever. It's the only way this can work. If the higher ups feel we're compromised in any fashion, she's gone and so are we."

"She's… not going to be happy."

"No, I imagine she will not. If it's any consolation, neither will Reddington."

"Pity," Ressler said, not quite managing to keep a straight face.

Harold reached his decision. "Bring Keen's proposal to Reddington," he ordered, already knowing he'd regret it. "Be sure to mention what we're getting out of the deal - I'd be interested to know how he reacts. If he chooses to inform Liz at that point, it's out of our hands."

"Of course." Ressler stood and headed towards the door.

"Do you miss the chair?" Harold asked, as the handle turned.

"No, sir." Ressler shook his head firmly as he left. "I do not."

-o-

A day later, an anonymous text message directed Don to an address halfway down a side street in Queens; he walked past the entrance twice before he realised the door was a door and not rotting siding. Gray primer paint flaked under his knuckles when he knocked.

The door creaked open a moment later, the unlit room beyond it blocked by a vaguely familiar older man with graying, shoulder-length hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He held his hand out and, when Don dropped his gun into the waiting palm, jerked a thumb towards the far end of what looked like a long-abandoned dining area.

As his eyes adjusted, Don was able to pick out flipped tables and broken chairs; a roulette wheel and at least one large, dark stain that the lab techs would skip right to labelling 'blood splatter.'

He headed towards the light spilling through the swing doors at the back of the room and pushed them open. While the decor of the restaurant looked like it hadn't made it out of the eighties, the kitchen gleamed with modern fittings.

He made the executive decision not to speculate.

No Liz. Only Dembe, reading a magazine next to the bank of refrigerators, and Reddington, jacket off and shirt-sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring some red sauce in a huge copper pan.

"Donald!" Reddington greeted him genially. "Just in time."

Don dragged a stool away from the main counter and took a seat; this was clearly going to take a while. "For?"

"Dinner, of course. Dinner, I _hope_ ," Reddington amended after a beat. "When I was very young, we had a neighbor who made the most incredible all'arrabbiata. Nonna Maria: a retired zoologist - the stories she could tell. I digress. Every Sunday, Nonna Maria would make this wonderful dish, because she swore her children would cross oceans for it. When they invariably didn't, we were the happy recipients.

"I've tried numerous times to recreate the recipe, entirely unsuccessfully. I can only conclude there must be some key ingredient I'm missing."

"I'm familiar with the sensation," Don said dryly. "And I already ate."

"Really? What a shame." Reddington gave one more stir, then lifted the lid on a bubbling pot of penne. "Business it is. I'm afraid Mr Keen is thinking far outside the box and _deep_ into the wishing well."

"He seems to think you'll consider hiring him again."

"Because he's _deluded_." Reddington wandered along the enormous herb rack, casting an eye over the labels. "Tom Keen can be trusted only to zag left at the most inconvenient moment - no one of sound mind would ever consider taking him into their employ, and certainly not twice."

Don nodded sympathetically. "It's only fun when you're the one making sudden turns, huh? Look, it's no skin off my nose: I only told him I'd ask, not that you'd agree. He'll give us the names either way."

Jar in hand, Reddington headed back to the sauce. "Well played," he finally acknowledged as he added a pinch of some herb or other. "I await the reveal with baited breath."

"Didn't that make it into the message?" Don smiled brightly. "Turns out you're not the only one with a list. There's no doubt you're being completely transparent with us, but you know the FBI: we like to be sure."

"In my experience, what the FBI likes most is the credit," Reddington said, expression hardening. "Tom Keen can't help you maintain those budget-enrichening solved records. I can." He frowned pensively into the simmering pan. "Perhaps it's the oil," he murmured. "I'm given to understand it's always the oil. I assume Elizabeth is aware?"

"Not from the task force, and Keen was planning to stay out of her way that last time I saw him."

"And if his plans weren't breathtakingly terrible, that would be a comfort." Red gestured to the dishes stacked on top of the counter's gleaming chrome hood. "Three dishes, if you please. If you're quite sure you won't have any?"

Obligingly, Don pulled three bowls down. Shrugged. Added another. The sauce might not have been Nonna Maria's, but it still smelled pretty good. "You don't think he cares about Liz?"

Dembe clattered through the cutlery drawers; Reddington drained the water from the pasta. Don had seen the Twilight Zone as a kid and this, this little scene, was definitely a candidate.

"In my more whimsical moments, I might concede that Mr Keen believes he loves her," Reddington said as he stirred the sauce into the penne. "That he might, with countless hours of therapy, even be capable of some reasonable approximation.

"But what _you_ must understand, particularly if you're planning to extend him a similar arrangement to mine, is that no child who entered William McCready's training program did so without matching a very specific psychological profile. And Keen was, even by McCready's admission, a perfect fit."

"Until Liz," Don prodded.

"Until Elizabeth," Reddington agreed sourly as he portioned generous amounts of pasta into the bowls.

There was enough left over that Don wondered exactly how many people he'd been expecting.

"Given their natures, how do you think McCready ensures the reliability of his assets?" Reddington glanced up. "They're not loyal to a cause, or an ideal, or even devotees of the almighty dollar. They're loyal to _him_. At a fundamental level, they are conditioned to need his direction.

"Clearly, something happened during Keen's time with Elizabeth that transferred this attachment to her. You cannot, you must not, confuse that with love. He's simply not capable of it and when his focus switches to another handler, and it inevitably will, it's very likely she will be his first target."

Reddington cast an eye over the gently steaming bowls. "Dembe, would you mind taking one to Baz?"

With a nod, and a warning look in Don's direction, Dembe left the room, bowl in hand; Reddington watched with just a little too much anticipation as Don picked up his fork.

He stabbed a piece of the pasta and hesitantly put it in his mouth.

Blinked rapidly.

Considered spitting or swallowing, swallowed against his better judgement, and was suddenly a hundred percent sure that Dembe's warning had not been about polite behaviour.

Reddington beamed encouragingly. "Good?"

" _Hot_ ," Donald managed.

"Arrabbiata does quite literally mean 'angry," Donald. What were you expecting?"

Don cast about for a glass of water; miraculously, one appeared in front of his face. "Thank you," he gasped, drained half immediately, and considered nominating Dembe for sainthood.

When he could speak again he looked back to Reddington. "You seriously ate this when you were a kid?"

"I did say I couldn't get it quite right," Reddington pointed out, sounding aggrieved.

" _It's not the oil_ ," Don said, and put the fork down. "Look, if you don't help Keen, he's going to die. I know you can live with that, but can you live with Liz knowing you didn't do everything you could to help him?"

"Absolutely," Reddington said, and Don wasn't sure he'd ever heard the man sound more sincere; probably should have recorded it for baseline response purposes.

"Okay, then if you won't do it for her, and you really think the names on Keen's list won't be a problem, here's another question: how good a profiler do you think Liz is?"

Reddington's eyes narrowed as he tried to work out where Don was going. "She's incredibly talented. At times I might wish she were less so."

"And what are the chances she isn't aware of everything you just said? Somewhere between slim and none?" Don shrugged and finished the rest of his water while Reddington considered. "You may not like it," he said into the silence. "Hell I don't like it. But it seems to me this isn't your decision."

"I will do whatever it takes to keep Liz safe and if Mr. Keen feels the same, as he professes, the best thing he can do is leave the city and go far, far away."

"That isn't going to happen. Honestly, I don't think he can."

"Then put him in protective custody." Reddington speared a piece of pasta, popped it into his mouth and chewed with no particular sign of discomfort. He swallowed. "Unless, of course, you have concerns about any deals he may attempt to make or ears he may pour his poison in. In which case, you can simply wait - it sounds like the problem will shortly resolve itself."

"Or I tell Liz what's happening," Don said, and stood. "Do you think she'll run into the firing line before or after telling you to go to hell?"

Reddington's jaw tightened; his expression flattenened. "Perhaps a temporary arrangement can be made."

"We'll wait to hear from you. Don't take too long."

-o-

Red settled himself comfortably in the hotel suite's over-stuffed leather armchair, tumbler of Macallan in one hand and cell phone in the other. Disappointingly, the call connected; he'd been really quite hopeful that it wouldn't.

"Before we begin a tiresome back and forth of veiled threats and petty insults," he said lightly, "I _must_ ask. William, how on Earth did you persuade Gina Zanetakos to set foot on American soil again?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," McCready growled, voice thick with sleep. "How did you get this number?"

"Of course you don't," Red soothed, ignoring the question. "But, please, do pass on my regards to whomever managed it. Quite the coup. Kudos."

"Get to the point, Reddington."

"I thought you'd prefer to savour the moment, but as you like. Call off the bounty on Tom Keen, I wish to purchase his services."

"We're both a little old for prank calls, don't you think?"

Red paused. He had been sure that this had been an obvious ploy of The Major's: hire Gina to approach Keen, encourage Keen to approach the FBI, use the Feds to twist his own arm and finally McCready would have his reputation restored.

If McCready was genuinely unaware it changed nothing for the purposes of the call, but it did add an intriguing new dimension to the board.

"You may consider this your final act of reparation," he said at last. "Business is seen to be done: we are happily reconciled, the reliability of your services is no longer in question and..."

"Jacob's yours, I never want to hear his name again."

"Marvellous." Red sipped his whiskey. "Now, as we're such good friends, I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment longer?"


	4. Chapter 4

By four in the morning, the holding cell of the 17th was crowded, but subdued. At the far end a row of drunks leaned against each other, mouths open and snoring. On the left were a couple of bikers, comparing ink. They glanced up without interest as Harold drew up to the bars. Opposite, a trio of teenage boys with matching black eyes - and identical looks of blearily dawning horror - drew closer together.

And under the cell's single, dull light, Keen sat alone on the central bench. Hunched, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low. Staring at nothing much in particular.

"I've become used to receiving calls at all hours," Harold said. "But Mojtabai panicking at two a.m., because his systems flagged Thomas Vincent Keen, fourth grade teacher, getting booked for a bar fight? Can't say I was expecting that. Assault causing serious injury and assault causing bodily injury. What will the PTA think?"

Keen stood and took a couple of steps towards the bars. "About bake sales, traditionally. And book burning."

"The girlfriend's going to be fine," Harold said, when there was nothing further. "Lisa Markash: the woman you broke a man's arm for," he prodded.

"I didn't see any woman, guy wouldn't get out of my face. Why are you here?" Keen took another couple of steps closer - close enough to rest a forearm on the bars and effectively obscure his side of the conversion from the surveillance camera in the hall. "Have another job for me? Sorry. I retired."

"We both know there's a difference between retirement and redundancy," Harold said dryly, and received a wry nod in return. "You need to pull yourself together."

"What, you think I'm slipping?" Keen bared his teeth in a sharp grin. "I didn't have to be here. I could have put the cops down and been gone."

Which was interesting, Harold had to admit. Keen couldn't possibly think he'd be safer inside a police station, abundance of security or not. Curiosity won. "What do you think that proves?"

"Nothing, I guess. I don't know." Keen shrugged, almost uncomfortably. "But it should mean something, right?"

Apparently neither of them understood his motives. Hardly confidence inspiring, but not entirely surprising either. "Normally, I wouldn't consider congratulating someone for not assaulting an officer of the law," Harold said. "However, I appreciate your baseline is a little lower than most."

"Funny. Why are you here?" Keen asked again.

"I'm here to expedite processing, preferably before someone decides to try shooting fish in a barrel. I told them you're a C.I.," Harold explained, not bothering to hide his distaste at the lie. "Due to testify on a high profile case. You aren't being charged."

"Okay, kind of buried the lede there. But why you?" Keen pressed. "Ressler I'd get - I've seen the guy's apartment, he has literally nothing better to do. But you don't have as much time on your hands. Did you sell your soul again? Hey, how's Charlene? I hear marriage counselling is-"

It was the verbal equivalent of depth charges: firing to see what hit. Trying to make him reveal his intentions. Harold was a big enough man to admit that there was a mean, but entirely justified, amusement to be found in Keen's agitation.

"You're not going to make me angry," he said, levelly. "So I suggest you save your breath."

"You're seriously underestimating how annoying I can be."

"And you forget which division I head." Harold smiled thinly. "If I put Agents Keen and Ressler in timeout corners, do you honestly think I can't deal with you?"

Keen's crooked grin reappeared. "That's the plan, Harold? You're going to deal with me."

"Apparently." Harold raised a hand to beckon the duty sergeant from the desk at the far end of the hall. "After processing, take a cab to Ressler's apartment."

"Why would I do that?" Keen stepped back, eyes narrowing.

He looked suspicious; in fairness, Harold had to admit he had every right to be. "Because I gave you an order."

"I don't have to take orders from you." Keen's wary expression deepened to a frown. "I don't work for you."

Harold said nothing, waiting with a benign smile for the penny to drop. When he saw horrified realisation hit, he nodded. "Our mutual friend gives such thoughtful gifts."

As the sergeant made her way towards them, Keen's gaze moved across his face, searching for some indication which way this was going to fall. Harold stayed carefully impassive, giving him nothing.

He waited until he saw frustration before going on. "We have a very small window of opportunity where we may be able to arrange your association on a formal footing. Having you on board will give us an insight into Reddington's organisation that I suspect we're sorely going to need."

"And Liz?"

"Will be made aware of the situation. If she chooses to see you, that's entirely within her purview, but unless she does, you do not interact with her in any way. Am I understood?"

"Understood." Keen said promptly. "I'll take a cab to Ressler's."

His expression was guileless, but not overly innocent: the perfect balance of sincerity and annoyance, with a carefully measured trace of grudging concession.

Harold shook his head, grimly amused despite himself. "I can't trust a word you say, can I?"

The sergeant unlocked the cell; Keen smiled and said nothing.

-o-

"Shut up and stand still," Don muttered without much hope, and regretted his life choices. Specifically, the ones that had him awake at five a.m. and crouched in front of a man that he hadn't much liked even before he turned out to be a mole.

"But this is so sudden." Keen held still, at least, as the ankle monitor snapped closed - one out of two wasn't bad. "And RFID tags are a lot more discreet."

"Yeah, discreet isn't what we're going for." Don stood and turned to his laptop. On the map of his neighborhood, a little green dot blinked reassuringly over his apartment building.

He turned back. "I was holding out for a neon sign reading "felon" we could stick on your back, but Director Cooper thought this would work better. One strike and you're out - cut it and you're taking your chances in Supermax. If you even make it that far."

"Fine." Keen bent to tug his the cuff of his jeans over the tether. The shaped of it was visible if you knew to look, but not immediately obvious. "If you're not going to let me do what I'm good at, what will I be doing?"

"To begin with?" Don smiled beatifically. "So much paperwork you'll wish Zanetakos took her shot."

-o-

Aram considered himself a good person - he tried to be a good person, anyway. He gave to worthy causes, he volunteered his time. He was supportive of his friends and called his elderly relatives regularly. He practiced a firm catch and release policy for both bees and spiders, and he kept his carbon footprint to a minimum.

Basically, he was almost certain he didn't deserve to have Tom Keen suddenly appear in his peripheral vision.

A minor heart attack and an embarrassing yelp later, he realised Ressler was there too, and that no one seemed to be reaching for a firearm.

"I mean, hi," he stuttered. "Hello."

"Keen has a list of names we need you to cross reference with the information from Reddington, as well as any other databases that might be relevant. He's here to help, so don't be afraid to ask any long, boring questions. Okay? Great."

Ressler clapped Aram cheerfully on the shoulder, repeated the gesture with staggering enthusiasm on Keen and made a break for Cooper's office before Aram could manage a protest - or question. Or actually, a second breath.

"Uhm. Okay!" Aram gestured to the spare chair. "Well. Welcome to the team, I guess? Ressler spoke very highly of you."

"No, he didn't," Keen said, sitting.

"Okay, no, he didn't. But when you were helping Agent - Liz - Elizabeth - Keen - when you were helping, he did say you probably wouldn't murder us in our sleep. That's better than eighty-four percent of the people Reddington has given us."

"I will definitely not murder you in your sleep," Keen promised solemnly.

"And in return, I will take that at face value. Additionally, I will choose not to consider any loopholes."

A vague air of tension vanished as Keen relaxed back in the chair. "I know what you did for Liz."

Oh. Good. Aram narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "There aren't any open graves in our future are there?"

"No offence, but you seem kind of high strung for this line of work." Keen's eyebrows rose. "Weren't you with the NSA?"

"I'm not a field agent," Aram said, unsure why he was explaining himself. "I'm not trained to be around…"

"People like me."

"Or Mr. Reddington, he-" ... wait. "How did you know I worked for the NSA?"

"I guess Ressler must have told me." Keen's eyes widened in overblown innocence "You want those names now?"

In all honesty? No. No he did not. Aram nodded and clicked open the database. "Let's do it."

-o-

"No, stop talking. Let me see if I got this." Liz stopped pacing and deliberately faced away from the office window, removing a laughing Jacob and Aram from her line of sight. Apparently they'd developed quite the rapport over the past week.

She crossed her arms and looked down at the carpet, studying the awful pattern. As improvisational meditation went, it was surprisingly effective.

After a deep, calming, breath, she looked back up. Cooper and Ressler sat rigidly in their chairs, expressions uncomfortable.

Good.

"Tom," she began, acidly, "stayed in the city with a target on his back, but didn't tell me, in case I got hurt. You both found out, but didn't tell me, in case I got hurt. Instead, you went to Reddington and somehow convinced him to help."

She let her tone slide into derision. "I have no idea why he agreed, but I'll go out on a limb and assume it was in case I got hurt. And during this extended meeting of the boys' club, it didn't occur to a single one of you, at any point, that I should be consulted?"

"You couldn't be seen to be involved-" Cooper tried.

"Oh, please," she snapped. "None of this had to go on official record."

"You aren't always objective when it comes to Keen," Ressler muttered defensively.

"Are you kidding me?" She rounded on him in disbelief. "Who in this room is? If you remember, I was married to the man and still turned him in for questioning. Whatever my feelings are, they do not inform the execution of my duty. And who, exactly, thought that 'father knows best' was an appropriate stance?"

Cooper raised his hands an inch from the desk, a partial acknowledgement. "This could have been handled better," he agreed. "But you need to understand that my decisions protect this division. We're under greater scrutiny than ever before and I will err on the side of caution until we know exactly who's looking.

"I called you in now Keen has given us the names. Although it would be helpful if he were available for further questioning, we could release him at this point - he may even leave the city if you're the one telling him to. What do you want to do?"

And there was the million dollar question.

The anger drained away. Not because she agreed with Cooper - if no one ever made a decision for her again, it would be too soon. But she was learning, one gut wrenching lesson at a time, to only fight the battles she needed to win.

However furious she might have been, this wasn't one of them.

"The fact I agree with what you've done, and that also believe he may be useful, doesn't negate the fact you did it without involving me," she said levelly.

"Understood."

"Okay. So I'm assuming you didn't just call me in here to give him his marching orders."

"We'd like to run a name he's given us past Reddington, but he's reinstituted the previous arrangement - all consultation is through you,"

She blinked, remaining anger washed away by sheer disbelief. "You wouldn't have told me at all if you didn't have to, would you?"

"Honestly?" Ressler shook his head. "No."

Liz grit her teeth and nodded. "What's the name?"

"No name," Cooper said. "But the individual is known as the The Matter Miner. It seems unlikely Reddington wouldn't at least have heard of them."

"I want to question Tom before I talk to Reddington. Unless you think I might get hurt," she added as she headed for the door.


End file.
